20170420

Our First and Only Book Is Free

A loser who can't get over anything decided his pent-up feelings should rhyme and have meter, because cramming a few decades' worth of mind-waste into an arbitrarily exact form will bring the closure that excess and therapy cannot. "This bulging tin of expired stuff should be open, its contents inflicted on other people." You might like it, though. There's a glossary and some wordplay.

32 poems, 10,000 words.

An excerpt:

Artist: design4anyone

EKPHRASIS

That girl was your mission, you'd wish her a bride,
But marriage designs have a fissure inside.
That team from "The Dream of the Fisherman's Wife"
Is teeming with size in her fantasy-life.
Ignoring your feelings in more ways than that,
She'll match you with morays. A measurement spat
Would score them Gangetic, with you as a krill.
(No foreplay can thrill when you border on nil.)

Your thoughts took a Puritan Boston belief
Then brought in a scarring, not scarlet, motif.Her mores might warrant deforming some skinWith more "A's" than Fonzie, than passels of Prynne…

Whenever the violent contriving relents,
Your logic returns. Calculation prevents
That cuckold-creator from cock-holding you.
Her guy-friend procession, you know what they'll do,
That stream is ensuring her mouth will get all
Their tadpoles. And Brad-poles and Chad-poles, et al.
You dream of the seeds in a rosary pea,
Men resting, no peace, while you taunt, "R.I.P."
But Crab's Eye for bad guys won't really take place;
Precaution, and being prepared will save face.
So, fucking whomever whenever you like
Allows you to manage, preemptively strike.

The octopi occupy laps and then lips.One laps at her lips, and, eclipsing her hips,The other devours her drip for a fixOf secret-secretion-and-salt-water mix…